On our first several A&I (pre-)Grotto trips to Bustamante in the spring of
'67 we camped in the cave--carried all our gear and food for the weekend up
the treacherous trail--in the dark--and slept and ate there. Don't ask me
why. I thought it was tradition. Saturday (morning, I think) we were sitting
around in the Entrance Room cooking and getting ready to go caving. Several
Svea (white gasoline) stoves were roaring away. Lee Cantile was refueling
his prior to firing it up. He was a bit clumsy and poured a good bit more
gas on the packed mud cave floor than into the stove. Finally filling it he
sat the fuel bottle down without replacing the cap and proceeded to replace
the cap on his stove and begin the rather long, complicated, and tedious
process needed to preheat the fuel and fire up those silly stoves. In the
midst of this a great poof was heard and a fireball about 8 feet in diameter
rose up from his cooking area (and I recall a fearful scream, but may have
imagined it) then a ground fire of about an equal area about one foot high
continued to burn off the gas spilt on the ground. The fuel bottle spit a
flare a couple of feet or so out of its mouth. Lee sat there dumbfounded.
Peggy Anderson, alarmed by the fuel bottle, ran over and immediately kicked
the fuel bottle across the large room in a long arc, end over end, whoooosh,
whoooosh, whoooosh, fuel and flame following majestically in its wake. A bit
of gasoline had flown out and wetted Lee's arm, as Peggy had kicked it past
him, and singed all the hair off his arm. As soon as the fires were put out
Lee began complaining about his burn. There was no blistering or obvious
burning or redness. We finished eating whilst Lee moaned and complained.
Then we went caving for 6 hours. Lee stayed behind in camp cuddled up next
to a quart of Kaluha he'd bought in Laredo. He said that ought to drive out
the pain. We pretty much agreed. Upon returning from exploring the cave we
found Lee passed out, face down on a large, flattish, breast shaped
formation with his mouth and nose blowing bubbles in a pool of
Kaluha/vomit/drool and very close to auto-drowning. Peggy thought we should
turn him over to preclude his eminent demise. We did and laid him on his
back, at which point he began vomiting a foot or so straight up into the air
like and erupting volcano, all the drool falling right back onto his face
and threatening to drown him all over again. Vallooosh, he urped again and
the cascading fountain fell back into his open mouth and nostrils and he
coughed and gagged and blew more bubbles for our entertainment. It was all
no good. We settled for propping him up on his side and supporting his head
and letting him spend the night thus in his own misery. As I recall, his arm
was all better the next day--but the hair on his head was matted like a wool
blanket, his sleeping bag suitable for little more than fueling the fire.
And we stopped camping in the cave.
--Ediger
